Consolation
by Ms. Jane Doe
Summary: Her parents were dead. His father was in Azkaban. They were both living in worlds of darkness, separated from their peers. If only I could have some consolation, each thought. Some comfort. Something more than the misunderstanding pity they received. Please R&R.


**Disclaimer**: As usual, I own nothing but the plot. Everything you recognise is, of course, owned by Ms. Rowling and all credit for such goes to her.

...

Everyone knew Hermione's parents had died. It wasn't a secret. When the war was over, she'd waited a few weeks for things to settle down before she headed to Australia. Everyone thought it was the best counsel. So it was, that, on the eve of June, she hopped on a plane to find Monica and Wendell Wilkins in the home she had placed them. When she reached the home, however, no such people presented themselves. The house lay in a heap of rubble, blackened by fire. Frantically, Hermione had run to the neighbours to ask for news. Their news was as simple as it was tragic: the house had caught fire and neither Monica nor Wendell escaped.

Hermione collapsed.

Weeks later, she returned to Hogwarts. The tragedy had not changed her plans. If anything, she clung to her well-conceived procedures harder than ever. In work, she could forget. And it was good. Good that she could forget, even for a moment. At first, everyone offered their sympathy. Hermione fled from it. She hated their sympathy and she hated them for reminding her. Couldn't they see that she was only trying to forget?

….

He could see that they were trying to forget. Forgive, perhaps, more than forget. Draco saw it in their eyes, their half-hearted smiles, their nervous glances. Everyone wanted to make something of him now that the war was over and he and his mother had redeemed themselves. Even his father's imprisonment appealed to their sympathies, their sense of forgiveness, and their sense of what was owed to him as the son of such a man.

At first, of course, he tried to behave. He murmured pleasantries in return and assured everyone that he and his mother were good, that they were well, that they would not repeat his father's mistakes. He accepted their words and smiles and did his best to return them.

But he could only take so much. Soon, he began snapping in return to their sympathies, saying awful things, screaming, even, on occasion, physically lashing out. They learned to leave him alone. They knew he needed time to heal.

….

Everyone kept telling Hermione that she would heal with time. "It will be all right," they told her. "The pain will soften with time." Hermione heard their lies and she would nod, but she didn't accept them. She couldn't. She would never be all right. No matter how the pain softened, she would never be the same.

When she could no longer take their kindnesses, she stopped responding. She didn't answer questions in class, hails in the hallway, or their gentle, well-intentioned suggestions in the Great Hall. If she were to respond, she would have to think and that was the last thing Hermione Granger wanted to do. To think was to panic. To think was to break down. To think was to sob. Such was not to be born. It would interfere with her plans.

….

His plans were simple: finish the year and then vanish. He couldn't stay in England with their kindnesses and the pity in their eyes. He would lose his mind. As it was, Draco thought the school year would surely kill him. How could he stand their horrid help for so many months? No, he knew he would fail in his plans. He couldn't do it. There was simply no way it could be done.

….

There was no way she could make it through Potions. Snape would ignore her, of course. Of all the teachers, he seemed to understand most that what the girl needed was to be left alone until she found some sort of consolation. It couldn't be forced, he knew. She must discover it on her own, whatever it might be. Although he ignored her with great kindness and understanding, she knew she couldn't sit through the class. It was impossible. Without a word, she raised her hand. Snape saw it and nodded, knowing what she wanted.

With a grateful nod, she picked up her things and ran from the room. She needed air.

….

Air. If only he could breathe over the cloying suffocation of their kindness. With a harsh word that made the second year burst into tears, Draco turned toward the entrance. He felt bad for making the girl cry, of course—she was only trying to cheer him up—but he couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand another minute of their closeness, their smothering forgiveness. He needed to breathe.

….

She couldn't breathe. It was well, she thought, that she couldn't. After all, her parents had suffocated. Why shouldn't she? She thought it good and proper as she sank lower into the lake, the sky shining brightly above. What a cheery way to die. The sun shining above her. Hermione was happy, happy that she would die like her parents, but in her own way as well. Suffocation by water instead of fire. Water was so much gentler.

….

The breeze was gentle. Draco closed his eyes as he walked toward the lake, letting the coolness calm his temper. He really should apologise to the second year, he thought. A sound like a stone dropping into the lake made him open his eyes. Surely, that hadn't been a tuft of frizzy brown hair? With panic rising in him, he realised it was. He ran forward instinctively and plunged into the water. He fought the dark waves until his arms wrapped around her.

….

She felt arms around her and sighed, understanding it to be over. She was going into the light to be embraced by those she loved. She would see her parents again. Her blissful realisation was interrupted by pain—a burning, agonising pain in her lungs. She coughed, choking on the betraying water that was supposed to take her life. Mouthful by mouthful, her saving grace spewed from her mouth and she returned slowly to life. As her ability to think began to return, she realised something. The arms were still around her.

….

His arms were still about her. He didn't think to let her go. No, he held on. He held on to life—hers and his and the chance of a better one. She was weak, she was sick, she coughed up water on his robes, yet he held on. Somehow, he knew that she needed him. He knew that he needed her. He knew that, the moment she left his arms, the spell would be broken. They would offer their sympathies to one another. They would part ways and go back to their unhappy lives. No, Draco vowed he would not soon let go. He didn't want to.

….

She didn't want to wake up. She knew she had to open her eyes, that she needed to know who had pulled her from the water, but she didn't want to. He was strong, whoever he was. She could feel his strength and his warmth and it drew her. Keeping her eyes closed, she buried herself deeper into his arms. He held her tight as her tears began to flow, first silently, but soon in great, ferocious, broken sobs. In his arms, she was safe.

….

He was safe with her, he knew as he felt his own tears began to fall. So much he'd suppressed. So much he'd bottled. So much he'd hidden. Without his permission, it broke forth. His tears were as quiet as hers were loud, but he didn't fault her for the violence of her weeping. He understood. She needed this comfort—this one small consolation in a world of pain—and he offered it to her freely. He only hoped that she would not leave when once her eyes opened. He knew that, for years, she had hated him.

….

She hated him. She hated him and loved him. He'd foiled her plans and saved her and for that she was at once happy and angry and sad. His warmth, though. The strength of his arms around her. His very presence. He understood. He understood and yet he did not meddle. He merely was and he merely stayed and that was exactly the consolation she needed. She wondered who he was as her grief began to simmer out. Who would have risked his life to pull her from the lake, deep and treacherous as it was? Deciding she had to know, she opened her eyes.

….

Draco watched as her eyes fluttered open. He saw pain in the rich brown eyes. No surprise entered those dark, beautiful orbs as they watched him. He wondered if she even realised who he was, if she understood what had happened, if she would remember any of it if she knew it now. Gently, hesitantly, he raised one hand and brushed back the wild, damp locks of her hair. Carefully, he checked her for injuries, leaning over her with a protective air.

….

She leaned forward as he drew closer. It wasn't what he intended, she knew, but it was what she needed. Without hesitation, she pressed her lips to his. He froze, not knowing how to respond, and she laughed bitterly, laying her head on his shoulder. Her laughter turned to sobbing once more and she felt his arms soften around her and she knew that he wouldn't leave. She knew he would never let go. She knew that he, of all people, understood.

After all, were they really so different?


End file.
